In the Stillness of Night
by Minx2
Summary: Post ROTK - Two riders captured by an allied group of horrid men and Orcs, nasty things ensue. Warning: Dark themes, implied rape and violence - second chapter added
1. In the Stillness of Night

Disclaimer: Tolkien's, not mine

A/N: This piece has dark themes. It contains implied rape and violence. It may be disturbing.

In the Stillness of Night 

An ethereally beautiful golden-haired creature watched as the moonbeams played on the sleeping visage of the young man in his arms. While not an entirely peaceful slumber, it was at least not wracked by the violent nightmares that had become a usual feature. He held him delicately as one would hold a child, observing the lines on a face that had once held innocent wonder on first beholding him. Wondrously fair, the young one had called him. But true fairness of the heart this one alone possessed, this sleeping, grave faced Man in his arms, clothed even in the hot summer night in a sleeping robe that covered every inch of skin, as though the cover of cloth could hide within it scars etched deep never to go away completely. He held him hoping to take away at least the pain beneath them, if only he were allowed to.

He could offer naught but momentary solace, some comfort from the memory of a horrific ordeal. He had sought to slake his vengeance by joining the raiding party that had set out to catch the terrible monsters who had so hurt his beloved friend that he slept not in peace any longer. But it gave his angered heart no solace. It did not take away his friend's hurt, his pain. It did not take away his own pain that the one on his arms had endured such for his sake. A sacrifice the slumbering man had gladly made - for him. And that when they had known each other for barely a few months. Mutual respect and affection had set off their friendship, but it was the horror and sorrow of their mutual experience that had taken it into a higher level.

Each night since that fateful night some moons ago, he had held this man who when compared to him was but a mere child on Arda, held him as his sleep had been mutilated by foul memories that he could push away with difficulty even when awake but had no control over when asleep, figments of memory of what started as a ride through the woods, and suddenly became an incident that would forever mar their lives. Proof that not all men were as noble as this one, or as the king he served, or the brother he had had. Some men were cruel without reason, driven by no desire but selfish ones, seeking to please none but themselves. And when such a kind met one of an ancient race marked for its grace and nobility, and one of their own kind known for his selflessness, the results were disastrous for both. 

And unfairly, sometimes the results were more disastrous for the one who deserved it least. The selfless, fair-hearted ones lost more than those dark of heart and mind. Those fell creatures were dead now, killed by him and by his friends, actions backed by a wrathful king, shocked at what had been done to a loved and respected subject and friend by a group of selfish men and Orcs.

They had been beasts. They had outnumbered the two riders, a man and an Elf, and snickered at the thought of holding prisoner a graceful, fair and beautiful being from far off realms, and an equally graceful being of their own kind, one still recovering from hurts inflicted on him. Taunted and hit, the two had tried fighting back but been forced to give up, and dragged into a dark cave. He had seen it then, in the faint light that filtered through the cave. He had seen it in their eyes. The lust dripped maniacally from the greedy eyes, as their sight fell upon the two battered bodies. They had lain in pain against each other, hands and legs tied up, still harbouring some hope of escape. But, at that moment the hope had begun to die out. He knew the result of such lust on his kind, and braced himself for untold misery. 

And misery did come, but not the sort he had expected. This was a worse misery for it fell to the lot of another to bear it, and he could do nothing but watch it unfold.

The men and Orcs were cruel beyond measure and devious as any. They pushed his companion at him. The young one had refused first, his grey eyes reflecting nothing but loathing and contempt for these foul men and their equally foul companions. But when one of the fell men grabbed him and pushing his long golden hair back, held a knife at his throat, the young man's expression of hate turned to one of sorrow and grief. The eyes had begged forgiveness as their lips met. They were forced to hold it for long, forced to rub up against each other, still tied up. Then they had told his companion to take him. He had shut his eyes, feeling tears prick them as they egged the other on.

The young one had refused. His grey eyes held reassurance as they stared back at the Elf's impassive countenance.

The men had kicked his companion. He still refused. The Elf had felt the knife at his throat again. The man had spat at them. And the Elf knew then that his friend knew it would kill him to be violated, just as much as the knife at his throat could kill him, and that the knife was a more pleasant option. He had seen a strange worried gleam in the young one's eyes, but not realised that he had come up with a solution, a terrible one.

The men had tired of this sport. They had their own urges to satisfy; he could see how they bulged. One kicked his friend in his side, hard. He heard himself protesting, and a heavy hand landed on his own face, sending him toppling to the floor in a daze, hitting his head again. He could make out words, vague words, holding out a threat. Someone gagged him to prevent him shouting and clutched at his clothes and began to rip his tunic open. He fought and kicked and thrashed through his hazy state, coming into contact with bone and hearing with satisfaction the muffled curses. They retracted with violence, leaving him aching and sore and semi-conscious. His younger companion, meanwhile, was screaming, shouting and yelling, over and over again. The normally calm and serene voice was shrieking madly. It hurt his aching head just hearing the noise. He finally made out one phrase.

*Leave him. He will not survive it. Take me. I will do as you wish, as many times as you please. Leave him be, please.*

And he wanted to shout back at the innocent naiveté of the other. He knew such men. They *would* have him. They would have the young man first, and then they would break their word and have him. But his head hurt so badly, and then there was a grey fog in front of his eyes. Sporadic noises kept interrupting the fog. His friend was sobbing in pain and agony. His own body hurt terribly from the kicks and blows. But what hurt him more was less physical and more mental as what would constitute his most hateful memory developed seed in front of his horrified eyes before he gave into pain and tiredness, knowing that his friend's terrible plan had worked.

Then he felt himself being shaken awake as something wet slapped his face. He opened his eyes to the leering faces of men and Orcs, a terrible combination if ever there was one. The unbearable stench of those foul beings hit his nostrils and his head ached as he tried to register their promise to return shortly and similar treatment to be vented on him. He had not understood at first. His memories were blurred. Something had happened, he knew, but what it had been, his brain out of tiredness chose to block out. He lay upon a hard floor in a dimly lit enclosure, his clothes rumpled but intact, lips feeling sore under the cloth covering his mouth, his body aching, his feet tied. They had loosened his hands stupidly secure in the thought that he was too hurt from their beating to move. 

And some distance away had laid someone - a naked and bleeding figure. Lying in an unimaginable position, leg spread out wide as though they had been pulled till he had screamed, and a pool of blood between them, that grew larger and larger each pulsing second. Pale and still lay the figure, completely unmoving, battered and beaten and violated. The only sign of life was the faint rise and fall of the black and blue chest, streaked with red lacerations where someone had let leather fly on it. Furious at the sight, he had torn away his loosened bindings. 

Swallowing hard at the sight, he had crawled over to the young man, and gathered him up in his arms. There was no protest, nary a murmur of pain or any other emotion. Blood coursed down a lacerated back and chest and down the inner thighs through the shredded entrance. Blood mixed with the seed of each rotten creature that had so defiled one who had but walked on earth a few and thirty years. All over, the bruised body was covered with the same mixture, while out of a corner of the battered mouth trickled the gory proof of the further violations he had undergone.

The eyes had opened briefly, filled with fear, then seen him and fear had turned to shame. The man had tried to move away, pleading forgiveness for his cowardice through his swollen lips, but he had not let him go. He had held him, told him he was no coward, but the bravest creature he knew of. Held him until he fainted again from weakness and blood loss and other untold pains.

They had been rescued before the beasts could return, by a chance patrol. Shock and horror had greeted their presence. The state of the man in his arms could induce that in anyone. He had covered him gently with someone's cloak, and handed him to his friend, the king. But the sleeping eyes had opened and the distraught mind had come to its sense briefly, only to scream. To the battered creature, any man was his violator. He had pushed his king away, fallen to the ground, and half crawled, half dragged himself to the only one he seemed to trust. So, the Elf ignored his own aches for they were mere physical hurts of a relatively mild nature, and had lovingly held the young one and carried him home, shielding him from prying eyes that could be unknowingly cruel.

He had clenched his teeth through the healing process. The now unconscious man had made no sound as his hurts were cleansed, and the grimness of his friends was soon transformed into a burning desire for revenge, as each ghastly injury was exposed. They had cleaned and stitched late into the night, and stuffed the man with sleeping draughts for there would be no comfort from the pain to ensue. A furious king himself led the patrol against the brigands, and the Elf joined him. Not one was spared. But the pain in the battered soul and body could not be healed.

As they had sat in the healing room, slowly and steadily, his vague memories of the ordeal had cleared as his own strength had returned. He could remember how his friend had *pleased* the beasts. Bent when they told him to bend. Spread himself when they asked him to. Given himself when grabbed. Stopped screaming in pain when asked to shut up. And submitted himself to be broken just so they would not hurt what he had termed a fair creature whom none should raise even a finger upon. He offered himself up for what pleasure they wished to derive, so they could take their lust out on one who could survive the ordeal than attack one who would simply fade away if subjected to such torture.

The first one had been enough to cause the young one to break. The Elf had seen untold pain and agony on the man's face, heard an unearthly scream such as he had never heard before, and known that the younger being had lost something irretrievable. He had not wanted to see but he could not turn away from such anguish. Then the man had seen him watching, and tried to school reassurance into his features. Instead what had come had been another defilement, by a larger creature, and pain and misery were all that covered the once fine features. And shame. Shame as he glanced upon the Elf he had sought to protect. And the Elf knew not why, for to his battered mind, if anyone was to feel shame there, it was he. He who had lain there, with tears streaming from his eyes, unable to help while a young one he had known for so short a while, and not even one of his kindred, sacrificed something he could never regain.

They took leather whips to the battered body to make him more pliant, and laughed as the strokes fell on the writhing frame, already wracked by immeasurable agony. They had attacked his mouth, and made him pleasure them through his agony. They had fallen on him together, defiling his mouth as well, so that to the weeping elven being forced to watch the sight, it seemed there were just these monsters around, for his friend had vanished under them. The others had followed, and the grimaces had turned to whimpers of pain and pleading, as men and Orcs both had repeatedly raped one of the noblest men he had known to exist on Arda. Each attacked him more than once, satisfying weeks of pent-up desire in the slender body of one who had offered them everything he had in exchange for the spirit of a friend. The man had lain awake through most of the torture, the pain too much to let him forego consciousness. 

And all the while, he had lain helpless, trussed up from head to toe, unable to move, unable to speak, his frustration building up slowly as neither voice nor action was able to manifest itself. And his friend's innocence had bled out slowly, repeatedly, as he was mauled over and over again. Until finally, too horrified to bear the sight any longer, the Elf had closed his eyes, to the sound of his friend's pained whimpers ringing in his ears, waking up only when one of the attackers had shook him awake. He regretted it. He regretted letting go of himself and forsaking him.

He knew if his own memories of the event shook him so much, it could only be worse for he who had actually gone through all that anguish, and in silence because they would not let him release the pain by screaming. Because they defiled his mouth when he tried to shout out his sorrow. So he screamed now, each night, in his nightmares. Releasing the cries that they had smothered then. The screams he had wished to indulge in but been prevented under threat of pain to himself and to the one who held him now. They were all the man released of himself. At all other times he was silent and withdrawn, at first cowering away from anyone at all but the golden one who had comforted him when he had first woken from his ordeal, and then as coherence had slowly returned, he accepted his friends but would still shy from their touch. None could near him but the Elf. And the Elf would stay near him at all times, and marvel at the lack of accusation that the pleading eyes held. He felt guilt for what the young man had undergone, but saw no blame in the grey eyes. All he saw was pain and a plea for succour. When he begged a tearful forgiveness for forsaking the young man through his ordeal by shutting out the horrific scene unfolding before his eyes, the other's face had actually turned relieved and thankful. And he realised that the sense of shame still remained in the fragile mind.

All wondered if the young one would revert to his normal self ever. But men are no elves to fade away. Live through horror they must, and live he had to for none would let him do otherwise. And so he lived, a breathing shell of his former self, the light having left his eyes, only to return when the Elf with golden hair held him near. They consoled each other, one for his sense of failure and the other for the pain of a lost innocence.

Each night the Elf held the man while he slept. A man he had known for so short a time, yet felt like he had known for centuries, for in all the world, he had seen none such. If the need arose to spend each night in such a way, he would do it with no qualms. For the guilt would never leave his heart. The young one would never blame him, he was not of that kind as to blame others for what he took upon himself, but the Elf could never stop blaming himself. The only succour for him from the guilt that ate him daily when he saw the steward of the realm fight his fate was to aid him in any way he could. 

But all that was required of him was his mere presence while the young man tried to sleep. And he gave that willingly, each night without fail.


	2. Aftermath

Disclaimer: Not mine at all.

A/N – this is basically a companion piece to the first chapter, and deals with Faramir's POV of the events there. I just thought I'd make two chapters of the same story instead of two different stories.

Many thanks to those who reviewed.

LotR Fan – I thought it was fairly clear in the second paragraph from the end that it was Faramir. If not, it should be clearer in this part.

Aftermath 

It hurt. Pain clouded his senses, but not enough to make him ignore what hurt him more, the shame. He had wished and prayed that the blackness would take over. But it had not happened. He had been awake, and worse still aware, as the pain had intensified. And the more it hurt, the more aware he became of it. And the more aware he became of other things. Such as the alarm in a pair of blue eyes that stared at him in horror, the feel of a sticky wetness trickle slowly down his legs, the singing noise the lash made before it came in contact with his skin, such as the leer on a fell face before his mouth was forced open, the biting of nails into his scalp as his throat filled up with a taste so foul he had thought he would rather be poisoned.

They would not let him scream.

The blue eyes turned away filled up with tears, and he was glad. His companion was so pure, so kind, and so fair in heart. He could not face him after this, he who was now completely defiled. They were mere acquaintances, having met but lately in a time of war.

He could do nothing but whimper softly. They left him with a parting caress to his bruised cheek. He had not even the strength to flinch from the touch.

The same blue eyes held his gaze as he lay in the comfort of his arms. He was torn, bleeding and despoiled, but his friend still held him. He was a coward but his friend still held him and called him brave. He wanted to scoff; no one ever called him brave. Bravery was for warriors. He was no warrior now. He was the toy that had been played with so much in so little time that he felt broken beyond repair. He was fit for no more than to be thrown into a corner where he could lie in his miserable state. He tried to move but the Elf would not let him. He gave into the blackness then.

When awareness returned, he knew they were outside, no longer in that cave they had been held in. The arms that held him were not his friend's comforting arms. He panicked. These hands had hair on them, and the palms and fingers were callused. It was going to happen again. He could not survive it again; he knew that. All he wanted was to bid his friend farewell and to thank him for holding him. It hurt but he moved. Pain flared up, overwhelming him, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it until his friend's long smooth limbs circled his battered frame. Then he let the pain take over, a pain so great it rendered him insensible.

He wandered through the dark recesses of his mind, attempting to shut out terrifying pictures. From very far away, he could hear voices. They spoke harsh words, in anguish and anger and he found himself cowering away from them. He struggled away from the haunting thoughts, opening his eyes to a white wall, and more faces. He wanted to move, to get away but he could not. Pain rippled through his very being and he wanted to scream but then he remembered - he must not scream or they would hurt his friend.

His friend . . .

He blinked and re-focused his eyes. His gaze fell on serious grey eyes in a face framed by dark hair. His breathing became more rapid. Where was his friend? What had they done to him? What had they done to the golden one? The only one who gave him comfort?

The dark haired man placed a hand on his head, and he automatically felt tears well up in his own eyes. Not again! There were others too, but not the golden one. He felt fear flood his heart and even breathing became a struggle. He had to get away!

He tried to move but the man stopped him. He felt a rough hand come in contact with his bare shoulder. His breath caught once again. The he realised he was lying between clean white sheets, and his upper body was covered with strips of white cloth. It only served to confuse him more.

"Is he awake?" the voice cut though his fear-filled mind.

His friend had come. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a shrill whimper. The golden one came closer to him and he moaned again. It took all his effort, and sent rivets of agony through his entire back but he somehow managed to push himself up and reach out for him. The dark-haired man exclaimed uncertainly.

His friend moved forward as fast as lightning and caught him up. He held him in his arms as he cried. The dark-haired man tried to pull him away. He felt his heart turn cold. What was going to happen now?

"No, Aragorn, you are scaring him!" he heard someone say.

Aragorn? He knew that name from somewhere . . .

"They will pay for this!" he heard the wrathful words, and wondered if they were aimed at him. 

He cried on. The tears would not stop. He hurt everywhere. His back stung, his mouth hurt when he moved his lips, his lower body seemed on fire. He clutched at the cloth of a green tunic.

"Ssh, it is alright," he heard the voice he longed to hear, and looked through the veil of water into clear blue eyes, "No one will harm you now."

But the men were still around them. What was his friend saying?

"No," he moaned, "They must not touch you. I will not let them touch you."

A tear fell from one blue orb. He was scared now. Had they already hurt him? Had they forced the elf as they had done with him? No! The Elf would not survive. He had failed in his duty!

"Why do you cry?" it hurt to speak, but he must know, "did they – did they -?" he could not say the words, they only reminded him of what he has been through.

"No, they did not," more tears fell from the blue eyes, "you stopped them, my friend."

"Then why do you cry?" his voice was becoming more and more hoarse, the words dying out at the end of each sentence.

"Faramir . . ." someone touched his face and he felt more pain. He wanted to move from the touch but the golden one will not let him.

The hand moved to the Elf's shoulder. It was going to happen again! He cried out and launched himself at the man, using every ounce of his depleted energy. Spots danced before his eyes, his ears rang shrilly, and a searing pain erupted through his entire body. They crashed against the wall. 

It seemed pandemonium erupted. There were running steps and shouting voices. 

"I will kill them all," his golden one's voice, but something had happened to it. He heard anger in it.

He was on the floor, curled up in pain. The man neared him, and he felt fear ripple across him as grey eyes stared at him – with concern? Concern?

Then he was back in the comforting arms again.

The man was speaking to someone else now, "The troop is ready. I am leading them."

More voices sounded. Something cool was held to his bruised mouth. He felt something enter his mouth and stiffened. But this was not the foul release that had filled his mouth earlier. This was cool and tasted nice. The liquid flowed down his parched throat, and he felt his mind turning foggy.

"I will lead them. I am king, and that is my steward. He swore me his allegiance from the day we met. I will lead the party and we will hunt down each and everyone of those filthy brutes who have reduced him to this state!"

The words reached his ears but meant little too him then, as he burrowed his head against a slim but firm chest and breathed deeply.

"And I will come too," his friend spoke.

He felt almost dizzy with fright. Where was he going? 

"Don't go," he tried to say but the words would not come out. Oblivion came instead and he wearily accepted it.

They had thrown him at his friend. Their mouths met under duress, under threat from a knifepoint poised over the Elf's throat. He took comfort from the tenderness he felt from his friend and tried to give back reassurance for he had already known, deep inside, what he would have to do. He took strength from the warmth of those beautifully sculpted lips, and from the touch of the other's body. They tried to force him upon his friend. He refused. He knew they would not accept refusal and that merely served to strengthen the plan that was taking seed in his mind. It was inevitable, and nothing could prevent what was to happen.

He reacted by spitting at them, hoping to divert their attention on him. It didn't work. They made for his friend. He knew enough about the Elf's kind that what they intended to do to him would destroy him. So, he put into action what he had planned. 

He was thrown to the ground as soon as he offered himself up. Lust dripped from maniacal eyes. He felt his clothes being ripped off. His legs were pushed apart. They were stronger than he was, and many in number. His legs ached and he cried out in pain so they hit him. When the first, man or Orc he could not tell, entered him, the nightmare started. He screamed, and found his mouth had become another source of pleasure for them. He felt them rip through him, and shred him, not once or twice or thrice but many, many times. Pain was replaced by shame and degradation.

He screamed.

He was in a white room, and no one was around him. He sat up panting heavily, fear filling his mind with terrible thoughts. He was alone, all alone. It scared him even more.

He screamed again.

Someone ran into the room, he kept screaming.

Hands held him down, and he screamed louder. Something was slipped into his mouth and he gagged, but swallowed it. The next time he awoke the golden one was there, talking to somebody.

"We found them and finished them off."

He whimpered in pain and the Elf immediately looked towards him with relief in his eyes. He tried to sit up, but the Elf stopped him and instead came and sat by him and held him gently in his arms. He closed his eyes.

Memories flitted through his wandering mind.

A stern fatherly face, a loving brotherly face; he knew somehow he would not see those in his waking hours anymore.

Water, fire, war… and an assault. 

Every now and then, they would clear and peace would come upon him. He heard voices he recognised and loved.

When he awoke next, some semblance of awareness returned. He was back in his city in a healing room. They had dressed him in a soft, thin tunic. He looked into a dark-haired man's face and recognised his king, "Sire?" he asked, his voice raw and soft and full of self-loathing. 

"Rest, my friend," his king said, relief evident in his voice.

Others flitted in and out, healers, his uncle, a neighbouring king, a beautiful elven woman, he knew them all, but he had no wish to speak to them. All he wished for was his friend.

When the king returned later, he opened his mouth, "L-"

"I am here."

And he was. The only one he wanted near him.

**********

It was a very warm night. He felt a cool, soft hand on his brow.

"Legolas," he whispered softly. He hated how his voice sounded but he could not raise it any louder without being assaulted by a fresh wave of memories.

"Go back to sleep," his friend said soothingly, running a hand through his hair.

"Why do you sit here?"

He realised he was being held, carefully and tenderly, in the Elf's arms.

"I wished to see how you fare," the Elf replied.

"I am well," he said softly, knowing as well as his friend that it was a lie. He could move around now, and the physical pain had subsided greatly, but there were aches that went deeper. Aches he could see mirrored in those blue eyes.

He had asked about it some days earlier. And the Elf's answer had startled him. His friend felt guilt for not being able to watch what happened to him. He begged his forgiveness for turning his eyes away. 

He could not hide his relief. His shame had no witness now. His attackers he knew were dead.

He looked into the Elf's eyes now, and saw the sadness had still not left them. All was still around them. Outside in the warm summer night, nothing moved, not even a leaf. His thick robe felt too warm but it was the only one he felt comfortable in.

"I am well," he repeated softly.

The Elf nodded sadly and brushed his lips with his brow. 

He closed his eyes and let sleep overtake his benumbed mind.

-finis-


End file.
